


Yuri Plisetsky: Eurovision Media Delegate for Russia

by MaroMaro



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: About Europeans, Assumptions, Creative Liberties, Eurovision, Feel free to interpret the Ota side of the Otayuri however you wish, I'm not your mother, M/M, Minor Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Post-Canon, Social Media, Underage Drinking, Vague understandings of politics, Yuri is a nervous bean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9811703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaroMaro/pseuds/MaroMaro
Summary: Otabek glanced up from his phone, from his position on the bed. Yuri wanted to yell at him, because who just sits on a bed like that, without a shirt on, sipping away at a beer like it's a normal human thing to do?He didn't say that. He said, instead, “You look like you should be in a beer commercial,” which was a more sensible statement and also true.





	1. Viewing Parties and Preparation Stress

**Author's Note:**

> So, one of my silly headcanons is that all the Russian skaters share a love for Eurovision. I also decided that Otabek loves it, and had my dreams dashed by the fact that, as Wiki told me, Kazakhstan doesn't actually participate in Eurovision due to its lack of relationship with the EBU or something. I don't know entirely how it works and you will see proof of that throughout this fic. 
> 
> Therefore, creative liberties I am taking with this fic, FYI:
> 
> -Kazakhstan is participating for the first time in Kiev even though that is not true of this year's contest.  
> -Russia would definitely not ask a barely-trained Yuri to take on this job but let's pretend they would.  
> -I am making quite a few assumptions on how the media works backstage, and am basing it off of my own viewings which I largely forget every year after watching.
> 
> I am Australian and therefore embody every confused Australian re: our participation in this spectacle.

** St Petersburg, Russia **

 

 

“I am supportive of this viewing party, but I need you both to know that my heart is still broken over the EBU choosing Yurachka over me,” Viktor stated, his million-dollar pout earning eye-rolls from Yuuri and Mila, and probably Makkachin, if dogs could do that.

 

 

Viktor had expressed mock-offense numerous times at being overlooked to do the Eurovision backstage gig in favour of little Yuri. And to be fair, it  _did_ seemed like a risky move, putting a sixteen-year-old with minimal verbal filter in charge of interviewing dozens of international artists while on live TV. 

 

 

“Last year, Yakov called you in the middle of training because you posted a tweet about how we should get out of Crimea,” Mila pointed out. “You can't tweet about politics and expect Russia to like you!”

 

 

“I was on Ukraine's side! _They_ should have invited me to Kiev themselves!” Viktor protested.

 

 

Yuuri hadn't bothered to run Viktor's Russian tweets through Google translate during his time in Hasetsu. If he had, he would have seen a few political things sprinkled throughout Viktor's peppy English tweets about how lovely Japanese sunsets are and how Yuuri was wonderful at everything. 

 

 

From the safety of foreign soil, apparently Viktor had a few things to say about his homeland. 

 

 

In any case, a less politically savvy Russian would be preferable for the job any day of the week, and in the end it made sense; Russia's contestant, Dasha, was one of Yuri's (more subdued) Angels, anyway. 

 

 

Yuuri had known next to nothing about Eurovision prior to Yuri announcing at the rink, in February, that he'd been offered the gig. Mila and Viktor were both visibly excited by the news, and immediately found examples on Youtube in order to best explain the phenomenon to Yuuri. He noted, fondly, that such tolerance for a bizarre competition probably explained why Viktor had so easily embraced some of the quirkier Japanese music he'd found on Yuuri's carefully organised Spotify playlists.

 

 

For the job, Yuri was to fly to Kiev, home of the previous year's winning contestant. He would be the ground commentary for the Russian broadcast, flitting about backstage and chatting to the contestants about their songs, costumes and whatever else he could come up with on the fly. It was actually quite a big ask of a kid who barely liked people at the best of times, but Yuri, as it turned out, was also super into Eurovision (was it a skater thing or an everyone-in-Russia thing, Yuuri wondered) and the contract paid well, to say the least.

 

 

What had further sweetened the deal was Kazakhstan's inaugural participation in the competition, resulting in Otabek being offered an equivalent contract to Yuri. An observant Kazakh network employee must have noticed the spike in Otabek's social media presence since December and jumped on the opportunity to capitalise on his dynamic with Russia's fiery figure skating darling. Was there some need for Kazakhstan to strengthen ties with Russia? Yuuri assumed so; he had come to think of St Petersburg as home for now, but Russia as a whole could be quite menacing.

 

 

It had been an adorable spectacle to see the contrast between Competition Yuri, ready to take on the World Championships with everything he had, and Off-The-Ice Yuri, who had been damn near bouncing off the walls in excitement as he and Otabek made plans for how they could infiltrate each others' broadcasts as frequently as possible.

 

 

Yuuri had wondered if it was going to be a distraction, but as it turned out the little one was able to pull out enough Agape and Appassionato to secure another gold, ahead of Yuuri's silver and Viktor's bronze. Otabek had missed the podium, but he'd managed to get silver in the Four Continents a month before, between Yuuri's gold and JJ's bronze. 

 

 

Mila beckoned for Makkachin to join the three of them on the couch so that a commemorative selfie could be taken. The poodle managed to wiggle into every space available and Yuuri, sitting centrally, held his phone out with the selfie-cam activated.

 

 

Satisfied with the quality of the shot, Yuuri posted it to Instagram.

 

 

_**Davai, @yuri-plisetsky (and @otabek-altin)! #eurovisionviewingparty #eurowhat #culturalimmersion #amidoingitright** _

 

 

He'd learned that being a bit snarky on his Instagram got him more likes, and that kept Viktor happy.

 

 

 

** Kiev, Ukraine   
**

** (the night before) **

 

 

Fuck. He was really going to do this. Yuri lay on his bed in the officially delegated Eurovision hotel in Kiev, surrounded by notes about performers and a few general pointers. He would have a earpiece with commentary fed to him from a Russian media presenter who would be doing the more official and formal work, but Yuri would have to dart around to various performers, who had prompts and notes of their own, and conduct interviews that would 'maintain the interest of the youth'.

 

 

Well, Yuri had no fucking idea how he was going to do that.  _He_ fancied himself quite an interesting person, and he had received mostly pleasant feedback from the mirror-selfie he had posted on Instagram earlier where he was decked out in his outfit for the next day: a long, black t-shirt over a pair of metallic blue leggings. He had been sent the leggings by some random company and he wasn't above being a corporate sellout by way of advertising clothing to his ever-loyal Angels. One Insta post? The company was happy and his contract was fulfilled. At least he wasn't doing commercials for multivitamins since, as Viktor said, those are for idiots.

 

 

Not that he'd admit to agreeing with Viktor on anything, ever.

 

 

His outfit was tied together by a pair of black creepers that had a patch of leopard print on the tops. They looked awesome and they made him an inch taller in a way that didn't fuck with his skating like the other, naturally-obtained, two inches had done. What wasn't to like?

 

 

Still, he didn't give his fans that much to work with, and he knew it. He was seen as a prickly character, and the interviews he had given in his first year on the senior circuit were either consistent with that assessment, or so thoroughly coached by Lilia that he'd worried people might send an exorcist. Since his Grand Prix gold in Barcelona, however, Yakov had made a point of getting Yuri trained up for the media in a more purposeful manner. 

 

 

The network had offered him the Eurovision gig tentatively, with the stipulation that he come in and chat with them to prove his suitability. He'd managed that, at least. So he had to assume that unless someone there really hated him and was playing at a very long con by having Russia see him humiliate himself on live TV, he had improved and was not a total media fuck-up.

 

 

He swung his legs in the air and raised his hips so that his feet touched the headboard behind him. Was Otabek freaking out like he was? Or was he sleeping peacefully, knowing that his country loved him and his pleasant, mild manner?

 

 

As if summoned by that very thought, Yuri heard his name called through the door. He bounced off of the bed and ran to the door to let his friend in.

 

 

“Please tell me you're freaking out about this too,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself.

 

 

Otabek stood there, a calm, composed vision in sweatpants and a t-shirt displaying a motif of some electronic music act Yuri knew little about. 

 

 

“Isn't it better if one of us is okay?” Otabek asked, stepping into the room as Yuri moved aside for him. “I figured you might be the one who isn't.”

 

 

“Well done.  Want a gold star?”

 

 

The automatic lock clicked behind them, and Otabek glanced past Yuri into the room, where clothes and papers were strewn about chaotically. “Making sure you get through this without telling anyone to go fuck themselves will be my gold star,” he said with a smirk.

 

 

“Go fuck yourself.”

 

 

“That doesn't count.”

 

 

Yuri knelt down to pick up some papers that had floated off the bed in his haste. He handed a piece to Otabek. “Did your network give you one of these?” he asked.

 

 

“Pointers for Yuri Plisetsky,” Otabek read aloud. “1. We have a thirty-second broadcast delay but do try not to swear. 2. Don't mention wars or politics or terrorism. 3. We don't know why Australia is here either, but don't make a big thing of it. 4. Try to be cute if you don't know the answer to something.”

 

 

“Mmm.”

 

 

“And it keeps going,” Otabek said, although he, mercifully, gave the paper back. “But, no. My network did not give me one of those.”

 

 

Yuri sighed. “Figures,” he said. “Why the fuck did they even ask me to do this? If they didn't want Viktor then they could have asked Mila. Or literally  _anybody else in Russia._ ”

 

 

“I'm sure we could leak a fake drug scandal if you want to get out of it,” Otabek replied. He seemed like he was joking, but it was hard to tell with him sometimes.

 

 

“That sounds like a great idea right about now,” Yuri grumbled, kicking his shoes off and sacrificing the inch of height that had put him eye-to-eye with Otabek.  "Can you stay here and look at all these notes with me?"  


 

 

"That was the plan."

 

 

The pair sat on the bed and looked at the artist notes.  They provided fairly general information; how old they were, what their song was about, what language to speak to them in.  Most of the artists were in their twenties, most of the songs were about love even though the theme was 'diversity', and he would have to use English for the majority of the contestants. There wasn't really that much to go over, and Viktor had insisted on going through them with him back in Russia anyway, but Otabek was a calming presence and Yuri didn't want him to leave.

 

 

"Huh," Otabek said, looking over the fact sheet for the Swiss artist.  "My notes say this guy was discovered on Youtube, but yours say he was discovered while entertaining guests at his parent's ski lodge."

 

 

Yuri read over the page again, before groaning and curling into a foetal position on the bed.  "Why did you tell me that, Beka?  Now I'm going to wonder what else my stupid fact-checking people got wrong!"

 

 

"It's fine, Yuri. I'll just go through the rest and see if I can remember anything different," Otabek replied.  "We've got time."

 

 

"We really don't.  It's midnight," Yuri reminded him, waking his phone up to confirm that it was, in fact, 12:13am.

 

 

"I slept late today. Don't worry."

 

 

Yuri sat up and shuffled close to Otabek so that he could get them both in frame for a photo.  Otabek, for all his social media reluctance, knew when he was about to be photographed before he even looked up, and gave a small smile to the screen before Yuri captured the shot.

 

 

**_Going over super secret Eurovision notes with @otabek-altin. #eurovision #russiakazakhalliance #itsathing_ **

 

 

The likes and comments quickly came pouring in and Yuri felt momentarily at ease with the knowledge that he could at least do Instagram right.

 


	2. Semi-Final Jitters and Hotel Shimmies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would be a two-shot, but you know how it is.
> 
>  
> 
> Please forgive the major issue of me really not knowing how any of Eurovision works, as is my plea throughout this story.

 

**Backstage**

 

**(5.25 PM)**

 

 

A few minutes prior to the broadcast of the second semi-final, Yuri was positioned in a standing split alongside Russia's contestant, Dasha. Russia was not in the first bracket of performances that would have put them in the first semi-final, so the networks had stuck with the commentary of the more experienced Mishka for the previous broadcast. She had chatted away from up in a commentary box at the back of the venue, which Yuri had made sure to watch closely. He'd studied harder for this than he had any of his correspondence schoolwork.

 

 

He'd sat in this room with Dasha for a little while now, casually chatting once she'd loosened up a bit. Yuri had expected to be the one that needed to loosen up, but Dasha was a fan of his and that apparently eclipsed the fact that she was in a position of moderate authority over him. She had told him, quietly, that she was nervous about performing, so Yuri had suggested they do some stretches, having established her past in ballet. It seemed to put Dasha at ease, and Yuri would admit it had the same effect on him. It didn't hurt that he was hoping to maintain his Biellmann over the off-season, so any excuse would do.

 

 

“We'll be on in one minute,” the cameraman said, having entered the room a moment before, perplexed by the two teenagers contorting themselves and giggling.

 

 

Yuri let his leg come down with control, before he heard his earpiece switch on.

 

 

 _“_ _You can keep stretching, guys,”_ came Mishka's voice. _“I think it will be cute on the broadcast.”_

 

 

There was that dumb word again, Yuri thought, internally cringing at the word 'cute'. He was a bit sick of it being his claim to fame, and had half a mind to ask Viktor to choreograph him an almost offensively sexual free skate for the next season to cast off the identity. It had worked for Katsuki, hadn't it?

 

 

“Okay,” Yuri replied, feeling weird about chatting into a headset still, even though they'd soundchecked it all earlier. He turned to Dasha. “We're going to keep the stretching stuff going,” he told her. “Mishka said so.”

 

 

“Fine with me!” Dasha chirped, as her makeup lady touched up her blush in the final seconds before they went to air.

 

 

Yuri almost missed his cue. Mishka announced him over the headset and it almost didn't occur to him that it was for the TV.

 

 

“Um, thanks Mishka. Hi, Russia!” Yuri began. So far so good. “Welcome to Eurovision, here in Kiev. I'm Yuri Plisetsky and I'm here with your Eurovision contestant, Dasha. Now, she says stretching relieves her nerves a bit -”

 

 

“Yuri!” protested Dasha, playfully.

 

 

“And I guess I can relate to that. So that's why we're doing splits against the wall. How are you enjoying Eurovision so far, Dasha?” he asked.

 

 

“I'm loving it, Yuri,” Dasha replied, her voice sounding quite different than it did prior to the broadcast, in a way that he knew his was also changing now that they were on camera. “This year's theme is Celebrating Diversity and it definitely feels diverse back here! Everyone looks amazing.”

 

 

“Huh. Stock answers for stock questions, I guess,” Yuri replied, and winced as Mishka hissed in his earpiece, outside of the broadcast, about sarcasm.

 

 

Dasha looked at him knowingly – they both knew the introductory questions were complete crap.

 

“I asked my Instagram followers if they had any questions for you, so I think I'll ask you a couple now,” Yuri continued, happy that he could seek refuge in his phone from time to time, as was his accepted Personal Brand. “Um, first question is... not that one. Gross, man,” Yuri said, candidly, looking into the camera as if directly into the eyes of the pervy Instagram user. “Um, this poster wants to ask how you're enjoying Kiev so far?”

 

 

“Thank you for your question, Instagram friend! Kiev is very lovely so far. I lived in Kharkiv for a while when I was small and I always wanted to come back to Ukraine someday.”

 

 

Yuri knew that there was an opening for a political comment there but also knew to shut the fuck up about it. “There are lots of gross questions here, so give me a second, Dasha,” he said quietly. He knew that was probably too quiet and mumbly for a broadcast. Oops.

 

 

“Can I read them later?”

 

 

“They're on the selfie I posted of us before, so I can't stop you,” he replied, smirking. “This question here asks how amazing it is to be standing with Yuri Plisetsky right now.”

 

 

“ _Yuri, this isn't about you!”_ Mishka scolded through his earpiece.

 

 

“Oh, Instagram friend, it is just wonderful. Yuri is very sweet and cute as we all suspected, even if he is a bit of a jerk in figure skating interviews!”

 

 

Yuri could almost hear Mishka rolling her eyes in the commentary box. Gotta steer it back to Eurovision.

 

 

“Well, we are celebrating diversity, aren't we?” he asked, with a nervous grin. “We can celebrate the diversity in my personality.”

 

 

“ _That's... fine, Yuri.”_

 

 

“So your song is called 'Light',” Yuri continued, in an attempt to cover all the Eurovision Trivia required of him. “What does it mean to you? What do you think of when you perform it?”

 

 

Dasha rattled off her rehearsed answer, even though she'd told Yuri before the broadcast that the song was silly and that there were lots of metaphors in it but her English wasn't good enough to understand them. Yuri had looked over the lyrics himself and even with his proficient English, he thought it sounded pretty stupid.

 

 

They bounced back and forth off of each other for a couple more minutes until the broadcast moved back to the performances. Dasha was about fifteen minutes away from performing herself, and Yuri wondered if they were going to need him too much or if he could sneak off and find out what Otabek was doing.

 

 

“Yuri, hey,” came a voice from the doorway of Dasha's room. Speak of the devil. Otabek stood there hesitantly, cameraman in tow, and Yuri could have jumped into his arms, honestly. A familiar face was all he wanted right now.

 

 

“Beka!” he called out, before bounding over to his friend. He pulled Otabek into the room, and turned to Dasha. “Dasha, this is Otabek. He's -”

 

 

“Your BFF and the Kazakhstan delegate, yes,” Dasha interrupted, the term 'BFF' spoken in ironic English. “You act as if I don't follow your Instagram.”

 

 

“Hey, Dasha,” Otabek greeted with a wave. “I'm not due on the broadcast for another ten minutes so I thought I'd see how you were faring,” he continued, to Yuri.

 

 

“I think I've only said a couple of stupid things,” Yuri replied, suddenly feeling shy. He didn't know how Beka's broadcast was going, but the allocated cameraman looked at Otabek with much more confidence than Yuri's cameraman was looking at him.

 

 

“He's going fine, Otabek,” Dasha reassured. “Do you want to broadcast with us for a few minutes? Can we do that?” she turned to the cameraman, who shrugged.

 

 

“He's meant to be floating, anyway,” said Otabek's cameraman.

 

 

Yuri linked his arm through Otabek's and brought him over to the couch that sat out of frame from where they'd just been filming. “Dasha, come here and we can interview you.”

 

 

“Sure! Your Angels will be so jealous of me being in a Yuri-Beka sandwich!”

 

 

“Don't say that on camera,” the Russian cameraman ordered.

 

 

Yuri felt himself blush, and glanced at Otabek who looked at him with an amused expression.

 

 

**Backstage**

 

**(6:15 PM)**

 

 

“Amina, I'm sure you've been asked a million times already, but for the Russian broadcast, tell us how it feels to be your country's first representative for Eurovision,” Yuri began, standing with Otabek and his country's contestant. He wondered, looking at how closely their outfits matched, if all the countries had chosen media delegates based on how well they matched the contestants, or if it was just Russia and Kazakhstan. Otabek and Amina both wore slim-fitting black jeans and combat boots, much the same as both Yuri and Dasha had worn leggings and chunky sneakers.

 

 

“Hello Russia, and thank you for sending your very cute little delegate to talk to me,” Amina started, and Yuri repressed the desire to scream at being called cute again. “It is an honour to represent Kazakhstan at Eurovision. The networks relaxed some rules and it allowed us to enter the contest for the first time. I hope to be the first winner for Kazakhstan as well, so that we can host the competition next year and show Eurovision what a fantastic show we can put on!”

 

 

“And what is your song about?”

 

 

“My song is about learning how to fight through hardship and how it can help you grow as a person,” Amina replied robotically, and Yuri glanced off-frame to where Otabek rolled his eyes. He'd have heard this quite a few times by now and it was a pretty cheesy answer.

 

 

“I see you smirking at my media delegate over there, little one!”

 

 

Fuck. Caught out.

 

 

“ _Stay focused, Yuri. We all know he's hot but you have to be less obvious than that,”_ came Mishka's voice through the earpiece.

 

 

“Sorry about that Amina. Your delegate was being sarcastic about your very honest answer,” Yuri said. He bit his lip to keep from laughing.

 

 

Amina grinned. “Honest but cliché, I'm sorry! But, one could say that Kazakhstan has fought to be here and maybe we should celebrate that.”

 

 

“The most noble of battles,” Otabek added, knowing he was in frame now that the camera had zoomed out slightly.

 

 

“Of course,” Yuri said. “And you look totally ready to kick some ass now,” he continued, gesturing to her outfit. “So, good luck out there and Russia hopes to meet you in the finals two days from now.”

 

 

The broadcast ended a few moments later, so that Amina could prepare to go on stage. Yuri turned to Otabek and scrunched up his nose at him. “Way to distract me, jerk.”

 

 

“I don't know what you're talking about, Yuri,” Otabek replied in a way that suggested that he knew exactly what Yuri was talking about.

 

 

Yuri reached out and flicked him on the forehead. “Is your commentary person yelling at you through your earpiece or is it just mine?”

 

 

“I think we've established that yours is the only paranoid crew.”

 

 

“Whatever. Amina, come here for a selfie with us before you go out there,” Yuri said, pulling out his phone. Amina crouched down from her formidable height on his left, and Otabek squeezed in on his right. Excellent picture. The lighting was good and it wouldn't even need a filter.

 

 

“Yuri,” the Russian cameraman said, as Yuri finished adding hashtags to his post. “Time to go chat with Sweden. Get your English ready.”

 

 

Otabek glanced over Yuri's shoulder at the photo. “That's a nice one,” he said quietly. He bumped his body into Yuri's side, gently. “Go talk to Sweden. I'll try to find you in a little while. I'm interviewing Poland just after you.”

 

 

Yuri gave Otabek one of the quickest hugs that would ever be achieved by a human, before running off after his cameraman.

 

 

 

**Offical Eurovision Hotel, Kiev**

 

**(11:45 PM)**

 

The rest of the broadcast had been relatively smooth-sailing.  Yuri had become more comfortable with the whole thing as the night wore on, especially when he and Otabek were able to collaborate a bit, as they'd managed to do three more times.  He had a Skype call with the rest of the network delegates scheduled for the next day to discuss any tweaks they required of him.  Both Russia and Kazakhstan had advanced to the finals, which would be held in a couple of days.  So in the meantime, Yuri and Otabek could chill out as much as their schedules allowed.

 

 

Yuri opened the door to Otabek's room after a few false starts involving him trying to pull the handle prior to the keycard activating the lock. He hadn't bothered knocking, since his presence was expected anyway; they'd separated to shower in their own rooms after returning from the broadcast, and Otabek had given Yuri a keycard to his room so they could wind down and go over some things. Yuri had taken longer than he'd meant to, between showering and doing some of his customary late-night stretches.

 

 

Otabek glanced up from his phone, from his position on the bed. Yuri wanted to yell at him, because who just sits on a bed like that, without a shirt on, sipping away at a beer like it's a normal human thing to do?

 

 

He didn't say that. He said, instead, “You look like you should be in a beer commercial,” which was a more sensible statement and also true.

 

 

“This is stout and is not something that any figure skater should be endorsing,” Otabek said, turning the label so that Yuri could read it. “So, please do not Instagram me drinking it.”

 

 

“I don't Instagram _everything._ ”

 

 

Otabek smirked and sat up, making room for Yuri. As he walked around to the space on the bed designated to him, Yuri noticed Otabek's phone was opened to Facebook. He never posted anything much, but Otabek had told Yuri that his friends had a rather rowdy group-chat going at any given time.

 

 

“Have they been watching the broadcast?” Yuri asked, not able to read the Kazakh that filled the chat-box.

 

 

“Of course,” Otabek replied, as he quickly tapped a reply in the form of a beer emoji. Yuri had managed to wrangle a few emojis out of Otabek over the months but it made his stomach flip about uncomfortably to see him being playful with other people.

 

 

That thought was quickly pushed down because damn it, Yuri, you don't own him and his friends are probably super cool and quirky and it's _good_ that he has other friends or he'd be lame like you.

 

 

Good god, was anxiety contagious or something? Having Yuuri Katsuki in St Petersburg was rubbing off on him in the weirdest ways.

 

 

“They said you were very cute and sparkly,” Otabek added.

 

 

Yuri groaned. “Great.”

 

 

“Not a fan of that assessment?”

 

 

“I know it's _true_ ,” Yuri said, knowing that his frustration probably looked, as described before, cute. “I'd just like to be something else sometimes.”

 

 

“You can't help your face, I suppose. Unless you get someone to mangle it,” Otabek replied with frightening sincerity.

 

 

If Yuri had to be punched in the face by someone, Otabek would be top five, at least.

 

 

“That's why I took so long to come back here,” Yuri explained. “I was trying to get rid of all the sparkles but my makeup remover is crap.”

 

 

“I didn't mind the sparkles,” Otabek said, clicking his phone screen off and ignoring the vibrations that followed as the chat continued on without him. “It's good to see your regular face again, though.”

 

 

Yuri bit back a smile and hoped he didn't blush too hard at the comment. “My regular face with all this bullshit?” he asked, tilting his chin up so Otabek could see the patch of acne that had taken up what appeared to be permanent residence on his jawline.

 

 

Otabek paused, as if to consider whether or not Yuri's face was still acceptable in the wake of the great reveal. “It's humanising,” he said, and held out the can of Guinness to Yuri. “Ever tried this?”

 

 

Shaking his head, Yuri eyed the can suspiciously. “I only _kind of_ like beer,” he said. “And I feel like that tastes like super-beer.”

 

 

“Sort of. Just try it,” Otabek replied. Yuri took the can and took a sip. It was fine, but not something he would drink a whole can of. And that was a big can.

 

 

“Is that from the mini-bar?” he asked, glancing toward the small fridge below the TV. He had barely even looked at his. They were always overpriced and he wasn't about to partake in any of it during the skating season, which was when he usually found himself in hotels.

 

 

“Want something? I'm sure there's something you'll like more than this,” Otabek said, getting up before Yuri could say anything either way. “What's the drinking age here, anyway?”

 

 

“18, I think,” Yuri replied. “I didn't really think about it.”

 

 

“They raised it to 21 in Kazakhstan recently,” Otabek explained, before pulling a bottle of Heineken out of the fridge. “Is this one okay?”

 

 

Yuri nodded. “That's probably fine,” he said, taking the beer after Otabek had popped the lid with the opener that had been magnetised to the fridge door. “So you reached the promised land and then they raised the drinking age? What a dick move.”

 

 

“Something like that.”

 

 

Otabek settled back onto the bed and grabbed his drink. Yuri sipped at his beer, not minding this particular brand so much. He was learning. Viktor and Yuuri would occasionally give him something when he was summoned to their place for dinner, and even Yakov seemed to think that all Russian teenagers needed to understand the intricacies of vodka. Something about teaching responsible drinking. So much for legal drinking ages.

 

 

“I read somewhere that a can of this has the same amount of calories as a roast chicken,” Otabek said, trying to make sense of the kilojoule count on the can.

 

 

Yuri leaned over and held his bottle up alongside the Guinness. “I don't think they're that different. So are we both drinking roast chickens or did someone lie to you?”

 

 

“One of life's great questions.”

 

 

Letting himself relax into Otabek's personal space a bit, Yuri sipped away at his beer and took out his phone. “So, I was thinking we should learn that dance the Latvian crew was doing on stage.”

 

 

“That is not something I expected you to suggest,” Otabek replied, watching Yuri open up Youtube to locate a clip of the performance. “Didn't you say it was awful?”

 

 

“I said it was fucking stupid, yeah,” Yuri concurred, “But I'm better at dancing than I am at talking.”

 

 

Yuri clicked on a video, pleased to have found an official Eurovision clip without having to navigate the entire on-demand broadcast replay again. Juris and Marija, the Latvian performers, were dressed in matching red velvet catsuits and bright white sneakers. They had a small crew of background dancers who mostly just stood around during the verses, making corresponding facial expressions and gestures to the lyrics. The chorus prompted them to align themselves with the pair of singers, and the synchronised dance begun.

 

 

It _was_ a pretty lame dance. It was also a deceptively complicated dance, but Yuri was confident that two figure skaters could figure it out.

 

 

“Okay,” Otabek said, placing his Guinness on the nightstand. “Let's do this.”

 

 

Yuri followed him to the centre of the room with his phone, and rested the device against the TV so that they could refer to it when needed.

 

 

_Twenty minutes later..._

 

 

“This is so fucking dumb,” Yuri whined, turning on his toe and flicking his hip outward. “I regret suggesting it.”

 

 

Otabek returned the video back to the beginning of the chorus and positioned himself alongside Yuri. “I know. It's terrible. But we've come too far,” he replied.  The two of them moved on autopilot as the chorus began.

 

 

Yuri sighed and shimmied along with the dancers on the screen, before launching into a step sequence of sorts that made him want to get onto the ice and do what he felt most comfortable doing. He couldn't deny it was _fun_ but it was a lame song and he had essentially promised himself, like an idiot, that he would do this dance on TV. He had taught himself many dances over the years in the privacy of his room but he wasn't about to perform those to anyone.

 

 

“That wasn't bad,” Otabek commented as they finished. “At least we both finished at the same time.”

 

 

“Film me doing it,” Yuri said, grabbing his phone. “I can put it on Instagram and then if I decide we shouldn't do it on the broadcast, we still did something funny tonight.”

 

 

“Why wouldn't we do it on the broadcast?”

 

 

“I dunno. What if the performers are assholes and don't want us doing their fancy dance because we aren't Latvian?”

 

 

Otabek chuckled at Yuri's reasoning. “I've heard they're very nice people, but sure. I'll record it on mine so you can play the music on yours.”

 

 

Yuri shuffled nervously in the middle of the room and suddenly felt very underdressed in what loosely equated to his pyjamas. He reminded himself of how good this would be for his own PR, and let that carry him through the twenty seconds of dumb, energetic movement to Dance Dance Pop.

 

 

_**Extracurricular training with @yuri-plisetsky #eurovision #jurisandmarija #dancedancepop #latvia** _


End file.
